Five and One: The Words That Need To Be Said
by CowMow
Summary: Five times Sherlock wanted John to say The Words, and the one time John finally did. Or, the one where Sherlock is in love, John is a blind git, words need to be said and a happy end is inevitable. For SherlockedSherlockian, because I promised. Vaguely.
1. Chapter 1

**Five times Sherlock wanted John to say The Words, and the one time John finally did. Or, the one where Sherlock is in love, John is a blind git, words need to be said and a happy end is inevitable. **

An original fanfiction by **CowMow,** for my darling friend and fantastic RP partner **SherlockedSherlockian**, because of many many many many many reasons. Mostly because she is awesome and brilliant and clever and witty and funny and the perfect John to my Sherlock :3 Hope you like this, dearie.

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**How it started.**

John was fond of watching films. He always had been, actually. Ever since he had been a too-short, spikey-haired teenager, John watched everything; action, thriller, mystery, horror and, to Sherlock's pure and utter dismay, romantic comedies. The only good thing that came with the whole ordeal of watching insipid films was that Sherlock could press his feet up under John's bum to keep his icy toes warm, eating sweetened popcorn and drinking lots of sodas which always made him hiccup from the bubbles and giddy from the sugar rush. That, and John truly liked it, and Sherlock liked watching John's expressive face, the wrinkles becoming more pronounced when he smiled.

Movie night soon became a thing both men looked forward to, even though Sherlock would only admit that under threat of disposing of his latest experiment.

The first week of December did not only bring Sherlock and John snow and a lit fireplace, but also another movie Friday night, and Sherlock had prepared himself for another dull film about _boy meets girl, they kiss, they argue, they break up, they get each other anyway and kiss in the middle of a snowy field against all odds_.

But Sherlock had once more underestimated his brave soldier. This Friday night was different. Instead of that predictable story, his brilliant John had picked a film about two male friends, who grew from a deep friendship into a dedicated relationship. By the time the tall blonde one – Sherlock had, of course, forgotten their names but couldn't care less - told the other, shorter brunette that he loved him so very much, Sherlock felt this weird feeling tugging at the center of his chest, some tickly feeling in his stomach, and he knew that he wanted John to look at him like that and say those exact three words.

And Sherlock was convinced John felt the same. He had, after all, picked this particular film, which practically was their entire life story. Well, except for the kissing, but Sherlock could soon fix that. Surely John meant something with that, he was just too shy to admit it. But that was okay, Sherlock didn't mind helping his best friend.

So, that was why Sherlock made it his very mission to make John say The Three Words.

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A/N: Obviously, this story will have six chapters, excluding this one. :)


	2. Chapter 2

-**5: "Oh, because you love me."**

**.**

Sherlock had soon planned out how to go about this. He would just show John that he loved him, and once John felt secure enough to say the words back – something that John would undoubtedly do – they would kiss and he would be perfectly happy. He would have those wonderful flutters in his stomach again and he and John would always be together and that was like the best thing ever.

Phase one of the master plan was going to take flight today, the first Tuesday after that particular movie night. It wasn't that difficult, Sherlock thought. He had to show that he loved John despite everything that worked against them. He would show that there was nothing that would divide them, nothing that would make Sherlock stop loving John.

It wasn't hard at all.

John was working today, something that Sherlock thought was dull, it was much more fun when John was around in the flat, but he knew that the work make John happy and a happy John was all that Sherlock ever wanted.

Sherlock had gone to the morgue, picking up some intestines that he wanted to look at, especially the amount of that remained inside the bowels after death. Humming softly, Sherlock cleared the kitchen table and plunked the specimens on in, spreading them out for good measure. He grinned proudly at his work and grabbed a scalpel that he had stolen from John's medical bag. Soon, he was engaged in cutting the intestines open, peering at the residue on the inside. He didn't hear the door open, and jumped when he suddenly heard a loud curse behind him. Sherlock beamed and turned around, pointing at the bloody mess on the table. "John, hello! Look, I found a new bacteria… Wanna see?"

John glared with narrowed eyes at the bloody morgue that was their kitchen, and swore again for good measure before his flaming eyes reached up to meet Sherlock's. "What the _fuck_?"

Sherlock blinked, recoiling a little. "Erm… Experiment, obviously."

"Experiment?" John repeated, incredulously. "You chopped them _up _for goodness' sake!"

Sherlock hummed, nodding proudly. "Yes. Brilliant, isn't it? I got a really good look at…" His voice trailed off when he realised John was not really interested in the exact details.

John took a step closer and let his gaze glide around the kitchen and then finally settled on the detective, who looked like the murdered innocence itself. His shoulders where tense, the lines around his mouth taut. "I wonder why I put up with you," he said, and there was no mirth in his voice when he said the words.

Sherlock smirked nonetheless and turned around to continue what he had started. "Oh, because you love me," he replied seemingly off-handedly. He bent over the intestines, biting his lip because now John would chuckle, make a joke of it, say "Yes, Sherlock, of course, that's exactly it, you brilliant detective you!" and they would kiss and fireworks and…

Nothing.

Instead, there was the slam of the door and heavy footsteps down the seventeen stairs. Sherlock straightened and frowned in confusion at the fridge. Right. Perhaps he had made a slight miscalculation.


	3. Chapter 3

**-4: "Yeah, I love you too, John!"**

**.**

So, alright, phase one had not really been a great success, Sherlock admitted that albeit it a bit reluctantly. It had been a truly good plan, but apparently a new approach was needed. So, he prepared another strategy, in the full hopes that that would work.

While John had gone, and Mycroft's lackeys had cleared the table, Sherlock curled up in front of the telly to carry out research – watching a couple more of John's favourite films, making some very useful notes while he were at it. Roses were good, as were candles. That explained Angelo's actions… Oh, and music. People liked music, apparently. Sherlock grinned.

He bought John Thai and put it in a cleaned microwave, warming it as soon as he heard the front door downstairs, and placing it on the clean table next to a cuppa of tea.

John seemed grateful for the dinner, but seemed a bit reluctant to touch the table, while Sherlock merely observed him. "You've been at the pub again, with Stamford," he said, eyeing John's shoes. "Was it… fun?"

John scoffed and sank down in his chair, opening the carton so he could eat his dinner. "Yes. But you wouldn't know about that." He broke the chopsticks apart and started eating, wolfing his dinner down, mumbling his thanks around a mouthful of rice.

After a bit of half-answered inquiries, Sherlock realised that John preferred some quiet today – John was apparently still a bit upset – so Sherlock got up and disappeared into his room, closing the door.

John went to bed at the time he always did, and then Sherlock emerged from his room, violin and bow in hand. He stood in front of the window and cleared his throat before he started playing John's favourite melody as soon as he knew John was asleep. He always slept better when there was some music coming from down the stairs.

Except… Feet were soon stomping down the stairs, and Sherlock's steady slide of his arm faltered. That didn't sound like a sleeping John, nor like a happy John either.

He started when the door was slammed open, and turned around, his grey eyes wide. "John, I thought you were asl-"

"I was, yes," John snapped, grabbing his coat off the hook. "I was trying to fucking sleep, Sherlock. You waited on purpose for me to fall asleep before you started playing, you selfish tit!"

"John, I-"

"I don't care!" John snatched his keys and wallet from the table and glared at his friend before he stomped down the other set of stairs too.

Sherlock was left with a bow in his hand, violin in the other as he called down the stairs, "John, plea-"

"Damnit, Sherlock, you drive me fucking nuts!" John yelled, trying to open the front door. "I _hate_ you sometimes!"

When Sherlock heard the door swing open, he called, "Yeah, I love you too, John!" It was meant as a half-tease to lighten the mood, but sounded much more serious than Sherlock had intended – and _practiced._ But John didn't hear it, he just left for his sister or Greg or a hotel, the sound of the closing door waking Mrs Hudson and drowning his words.

Sherlock blinked and sighed deeply. Right. Time for plan 3.


	4. Chapter 4

**-3: Truth or Dare?**

**.**

After the first two failed attempts, Sherlock took it easy for a couple of days. Another movie night passed – John insisted on some old film about a secret agent; Sherlock thought the villain looked like Mycroft – and it was soon nearing Thursday. Which was the night that John announced he had invited Greg and Molly and Harry for a game night.

Sherlock didn't want a game night. John somehow thought it hilarious if they played Cluedo, while the rules were wrong. How on earth could _he_ be the killer of Professor Plum with a lead pipe in the kitchen? Surely _he_ would know if he had killed the man? He could have done it, of course, technically speaking. It was actually very easy, the professor was suffering from diabetes as was clear from his complexion so he would have to drink a lot of water…. but he hadn't killed the man. And if he had, he wouldn't leave any traces or evidence. So. The rules were wrong.

But again, it made John happy, so who was Sherlock to refuse?

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Alas, the evening turned out to be even worse than dreaded. After being unable to find the figure of Professor Plum, Greg had the brilliant idea to play truth or dare. John jumped onto the idea immediately, grabbing an empty beer bottle.

Sherlock was repulsed, it was such a juvenile game, designed to embarrass people. But then… Ooh… He spun the bottle when it was his turn – after having to tell a bad joke in a very enthusiastic way, which had been very embarrassing indeed because he didn't know any jokes, let alone bad ones – and it landed on John.

His flatmate grinned up at him expectantly.

"Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

Sherlock hummed and then smirked. "You have to tell your crush that you love them."

Harry sniggered and smirked at her baby brother, almost meaningful. Sherlock's chest puffed out in pride. Penny in the air… He grinned at his friend until John just shrugged.

"Sorry, chaps. I got no crush."

Harry narrowed her eyes. "Ooh… refusing to do the dare, Johnny?"

John shrugged again, accompanying it with his charming, slightly toothy grin. "Yup. Sorry, but no crush means I can't do the dare."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, and let Molly choose the next, even worse, dare. "Erm… kiss the next person who comes into the room," she said with a giggle, blushing when Greg grinned at her. Ugh, _dull_.

John agreed with a grin and a shrug, so that was why Mycroft Holmes suddenly had a mouthful of John the moment he opened the door. He had only wanted to speak to Sherlock…

Needless to say, Sherlock was really grumpy the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

((A/N: Bugger. I am not allowed to kill one of them off. That would make for an interesting sixth chapter. Mwuhahahahaaaaaaa!))

**.**

**-2: "Luuve youou, Jawn."**

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Sherlock felt _brilliant_! He felt on top of the world, triumphant, awesome, and most of all… drunk. Drunkydrunkydrunk. Wasn't that just _brilliant_? Ah, swaggerty-swag, what's in John's bag? Ooh keys! Keys were nice. Keys jingled and they opened things. Bloody marvelous, opening things. Always a surprise what was behind things. Well, for idiots, of course. Oh, wall. Wall was firm, nice. Firm like John. Not as warm and cuddly, though. John was very cuddly, really. Soft jumpers, soft hair, soft belly… Poke. Pokeypokeypokepoke.

In hindsight, it was bad that he had let himself go, but in the moment Sherlock had more fun than he had ever had in his life. Not even solving crimes were this much fun. Everything was bright and happy and blond and soldier, and that was great.

The few hours before hadn't been great, with John forcing him to attend Molly's birthday at a pub, so Sherlock had had a beer, a real one, a Guinness. Which tasted very interesting, so he had ordered another one, and another one, until the floor was wavey like a sea and he started to feel a bit like a pirate.

Now he was marching his way up unwilling stairs towards his own private cabin, his shoes slipping a bit on the slippery deck, and he giggled, tightly gripping John's warm, sturdy coat. "Ooh, Brilllllllliant!" he exclaimed, slurring. "Niceynice! I'm a pirate!" and if on cue he started to hum that song from the films John had watched one time.

John rolled his eyes and helped his inebriated friend up the stairs, making sure he wouldn't fall and hit his brilliant head. He had had enough of falling detectives as it were, he really wasn't eager for a repeat of any kind.

Sherlock seemed to be having the time of his life, though, singing and shouting "Harr harr and a bottle of rum!" every now and then, waving his phone around like it was the mentioned bottle.

It was endearing, in a way, John thought, and he smiled a bit when he slowly started to help his friend out of some of his clothes, making him ready for the night.

John was so warm and soft, Sherlock realised with a dopey smile, and his hands were a bit rough but perfectly steady, touching his skin like it was a treasure map. He was helped under warm covers in his hammock, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. "Don' forget to feed Larry," he slurred quietly, and John hummed.

"Of course, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, pleased with himself, and for once at peace with the world. "Luuve youou, Jawn," he added, just when John prepared to leave. The pirate curled up on his side and was out like a light.

John stood frozen in the doorway, his easy expression lost now it had made way for a wistful and sad look of longing. He glanced at the detective in the bed, his mop of curls peeking out from under the blanket, and he sighed, balling his hand to a fist. It was just an experiment for Sherlock, he told himself for the umpteenth time. "Just an experiment," he whispered because saying it out loud made it more real. He nodded like only soldiers could, and left the room. _"Just an experiment."_

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((Special thanks to: **Grac3** (Glad you like it!), **SherlockedSherlockian** (of course, I love the reviews honey!), **MrsCumberbatch** (Yaaay! See, John's not such a shit), **KL08** (Me too. Might write that bit, actually. :P), **EJBRUSH1952** (Hope you have an answer now..? I pity them both) and **Julie** (More to come indeed.) Keep the reviews coming, they are brilliant to read. :D ))


	6. Chapter 6

**-1: "Yes, but I love you, John…"**

**.**

The day after, if one could call it that, Sherlock realised that being drunk was only fun at the moment itself, and that drowning one's sorrow in even more beer did only help for a small amount of time. Breakfast was filled with grumpy grunts and embarrassed little snippets of remembering what had happened, and some awkward tense silent that told Sherlock that not everything had gone as… planned.

John didn't mention much of the night before, and seemed reluctant to answer Sherlock's groaned, complaining questions, and quietly ate his toast before announcing he had to go to work. He grabbed his bag, keys and wallet, and was off.

Sherlock was left alone with his coffee, water and painkillers, and decided that throwing himself on the sofa was a good remedy for a vicious, evil hangover.

When John returned, fearing the lethargic sight of Sherlock on the sofa, bored out of his aching mind, he was pleasantly surprised to find the man dressed, shaved and seemingly recovered from last night. There was a new case on, and soon John was whisked along, running havoc in London alongside his best friend.

The case was easily solved – something to do with three dogs, five cats, a dove and a panda – and Sherlock's resolve to make John Say The Words seemed to have lost in strength and urgency when more cases presented themselves.

Sherlock still took time for Movie Friday, and the Friday after Christmas they watched the last installment of _The Hangover_, something that Sherlock shouldn't have found hilarious but it was anyway, even though Sherlock knew perfectly well it was just John taking the piss at him.

The following Sunday, Greg Lestrade came to 221B to ask the detective and his blogger for help on finding a murderer of random men and women. Sherlock found out there was a link between their schools and some bullying that had been going on ten years ago. With that knowledge, it was fairly easy to tell who the killer was, and where he killed his victims – an abandoned factory. Sometimes Sherlock feared for the existence of criminals, because they were seriously lacking imagination.

They followed the clues and it was before dusk, and ere long John and Sherlock found themselves between empty crates and other stuff, crouching and waiting for the killer. They were pressed close in a small space, and Sherlock felt John's warm breath tickle the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, a bit shivery.

"You okay?" John asked, pressing one of his hands to the small of Sherlock's back, the warmth seeping to Sherlock's very heart.

The detective nodded. "Yes. Fine."

John pressed his lips together tightly, his expression determined. "Good."

Sherlock hummed and looked out over the empty space. "No, actually. John…"

John inhaled sharply. "No, Sherlock, not now," he said sternly. "I don't want it."

"But…"

"_Please_." John turned his head and leaned away a bit so he could look at his best friend properly. "I am not an idiot, Sherlock. I noticed. I hope it was entertaining, all that… whatever it was. Don't worry, it's probably just a crush, it will pass."

Sherlock frowned, and shook his head. "Not a crush, John."

John scoffed. "Of course it is, Sherlock. What else can it be? And you are not really known as a romantically inclined man, we both know that."

Sherlock felt some odd thing happening inside his chest, something that made him want to change John's mind because otherwise he might just… scream. "Yes, but I love you, John, I really do…" His voice trailed off when he saw the look on John's face. "… Oh."

John's blue eyes were wide, his mouth hung open a bit, and it would have looked funny were it not for the look of extreme relief and happiness that came with the expression. "Sherlock, I-"

A loud clang was heard, and Sherlock sighed deeply, hanging his head. He composed himself and looked back up, shared a meaningful glance of _This conversation isn't over yet _with John, and slowly got up, his muscles protesting as he moved forward.

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AN: One more to go, honeys!


	7. Chapter 7

**+1: "And I you, Sherlock."**

**.**

The killer escaped – he was not stupid as Sherlock had predicted, stupidstupid_stupid_ he was never wrong! – and soon the game was on once more.

It took another two days for Sherlock to pinpoint the – this time – exact and correct location. Two hours, a mad dash through London and a few scares later, the murderer was taken into custody and Sherlock and John were taken apart by the police to give their statements. Lestrade was torn between being angry at them for running off again, or being relieved that the murderer was finally captured. He settled on a nice point in the middle and merely grunted a 'thanks' before he ushered them inside separate room, which had proven to be the fastest way to get things sorted.

When that dull part was over, Sherlock sat down in the waiting room to wait for John – who was always so frustratingly polite that it took the police ten minutes longer to get to the bottom of the details – and spent his time fiddling with his phone. It would be New Year's Eve in two days, and Sherlock felt a bit melancholy to part with 2013. It had been a great year, filled with hope and cases, and even though he knew it was senseless to feel melancholy for going into another year, it made no difference at all whether it was 2013 or 2014, he still felt like it was in some way saying goodbye to good memories and… well. Sometimes he was allowed not to make sense.

The opening and closing of a door nearby shook him from his thoughts, and when he looked up his grey eyes met John's blue. John smiled a bit, his face wrinkling in the most beautiful way, his back straight, expression tired but kind when he looked at Sherlock's drooping eyes. "Let's go home," he said gently, already opening the front door. A gust of cold wind made the detective shiver and long for a warm bed after a cup of tea and a bowl of hot soup in front of the telly.

Sherlock forced himself to his feet, and dragged himself over to the door. They had been up and about for quite a while, and as usual he hadn't slept with everything that had been going on. A firm, steadying hand on the small of his back was all the detective needed to cross the last few feet that separated him from the cab that would take them home, and the soft music from some band wafted gently around his ears. He was asleep on John's shoulder before the cab had rounded the corner.

John sighed and gently stroked black curls, that were softer than they looked though they could do with a bit of shampoo, and planted a very small kiss on the crown of them. Sherlock just stirred a little and sighed, nuzzling closer in John's warm coat. A soft chuckle itched in the back of John's throat, mixed with a feeling of pride. Finally, John allowed himself to think of that one moment, two days ago.

_"Yes, but I love you, John, I really do…"_

The doctor smiled warmly and sighed softly again. How lucky was he. Sherlock's efforts had not gone unnoticed with him, at least not the third one with the truth and dare, and he had his suspicions answered with Sherlock's quizzical looks and narrowed eyes in his direction after the alcohol debacle. John had thought he was just another experiment, a fling to pass the time because a caseless period was dull. Apparently, he had been wrong. Sherlock's exclamation had been true, heart-felt and very heated, if the loneliness, longing and even confusion in those eyes were something to go by.

The cab pulled up at 221 sooner than he had anticipated, and he gently nudged his friend awake. Sluggishly, the detective sat up, pretending he hadn't fallen asleep on John's shoulder, much less drooled on his coat, and groaned softly when he got his body out of the cab, onto the pavement, towards the door, up the seventeen steps, to the sofa. John followed him after paying the driver and made a bee-line for the kitchen where he turned the kettle on and hunted the cabinets in a search for food. There was only some instant soup in powder, which would have to do for now.

Not long after drinking their soup, Sherlock got up and mumbled something under his breath that probably meant 'good night', and disappeared into his room, not emerging until 18 hours later. The two friends spent their time in the house, watching sappy films and not talking about what happened in the factory. Sherlock thought it was now John's turn to say something, while John thought it awkward if he just said something now. So they said nothing all the 31st of December, ignoring the proverbial elephant in the room.

The clock ticked on, Sherlock played some songs on his violin to say goodbye to the end of the year, welcoming the next year, and found with more and more dread that he didn't want 2014 to come. If 2013 ended awkwardly with John, how would 2014 start? Some of his melancholy slipped in his music, and John looked up from his laptop where he was sending an e-card to his sister who was on holiday in Hawaii for some odd reason. He looked up at his friend, tilted his head and slowly closed the lid of his laptop, getting to his feet. He walked over to the musician near the window, and smiled as he pressed a hand to the man's shoulder. "It's been a great year, hasn't it?" he asked, and Sherlock stiffened.

"Yes."

"We've been through a lot, we have."

"Yes."

"Our friendship has seen many ups and downs, hasn't it?"

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was a bit breathily now. _"Yes."_ He turned around, lowering his violin.

John looked up at his friend and brought one hand up to flick a curl back in place. "We have been great friends, haven't we?" he asked softly.

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed up and down in a dry swallow. "Yes we have. John, what-?"

John sighed softly and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he slowly rose on tiptoe.

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "John…"

"Shhh…" John smiled and softly pressed his lips to Sherlock's, his blue eyes falling closed as he pressed closer against his wonderful friend.

Some sob-like sound escaped Sherlock's throat as finally-_finally_!

When they pulled apart John's blue eyes shone warmly up in Sherlock's grey, and with a wide smile on his face John whispered, "_And I you, Sherlock_."

And Sherlock laughed, pulled John close and they kissed and kissed again, while the bells of Big Ben tolled in the distance, welcoming 2014.

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The End.

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A/N: Wow, that has been fun! Thank you all for reviewing and alerting, but don't feel hesitant to review a bit more :$. They make me a happy writer :D And if you have any requests, I would be happy to write them. Thank you, and until next time! Oh, and SherlockedSherlockian, sorry it was over so soon ;)

Love, CowMow.


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